Silver Lining
by Anna Scathach
Summary: There was to be no salvation. There were only condemnation, regret, infinity. But for now, he decided that today his clouds had a distinct silver lining to them. Blaise/Hermione twoshot. Smut.
1. Silver Lining I

_A/N: Well, well, the things I write when I should be studying for exams... and the week is not nearly over... hmm, maybe one fanfic tomorrow, and certainy another one on Friday, I'm already looking forward to that._

_Without any further ado, I haven't written much of this pairing (there is _Glimmer of Hope_, although it's a different style altogether), so please tell me if this BlaiseHermione is fine. I hope I got their characters right, and seeing as I'm in a darker mood, this is much darker than your usual sweet fanfic. I hope you enjoy, and please review!  
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_Dedicated to my grandparents, all of them, but especially my paternal grandfather (except for the last part ;). I wish I could have known you. Also thanks to Mrs Groffe for making me read _Appointment with Death_ by Agatha Christie, it inspired the part about Hermione's smile._

___Disclaimer: Anything you might recognise (characters, setting, etc.) is not mine, it all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc. No copyright infringement intended._

**WARNING: ****Mention of violence, death and torture. Smut.**

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_**Silver lining**_

_Every cloud has a silver lining._

Grey. The world was grey. Of a stormy, cloudy, rainy grey, one that bordered on lightning and thunder dark, mortal peril, dangerous black. The world was a stormy, cloudy grey that was getting darker and darker every instant, as if night were falling, shadows growing longer and longer as the sun slowly set. A sunset, but without the usual burst of splendid colour at the end of day. Just an ordinary sunset, the sun disappearing behind the horizon, as if she hadn't a care in the world.

He did care. He was worried. Things weren't looking up in the least. There was to be no salvation, no redemption, no ending. There were only condemnation, regret, infinity. Darkness was rising upon him, and he didn't like it at all.

True, he had not been born to be the hero, he really hadn't. He had been born to be the villain, the anti-hero, the devil. And he had been just that, faithfully, without asking a single question, like a dog too stupid to complain and to afraid to run away. There was no running away for him.

And so he faced the fight ahead of him, trying, fighting, shouting spells with all his might. In the end, it was all in vain. Despite his efforts, despite his despair, they took them down one by one, one falling after the other until he was the only one left standing. He saw them coming for him, and decided it was worth a try. But before he could even attempt to raise his wand, several curses were shouted his way – curses he didn't recognise and couldn't fight – and he blacked out as a violet ray of light it his forehead.

That was how they captured him. When he awoke in a dark cell, chained to his bed with thick metal ropes, he almost wished he had been killed in battle. Almost. He knew it wouldn't have been worth it – the Dark Lord was not worth dying for. Neither was his Cause, if he thought about it clearly. But neither was it worth being tortured by the Order. He groaned. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid. He should have left, run away, escaped, at the first chance he'd had. He should have – yet he couldn't. He had been the most faithful, perhaps the most obedient, the unquestioning follower. He'd obeyed the way a dog would obey its owner, or the way a hand might carry out the brain's orders. He'd been nothing, nobody, in spite of his status, of his bloodline and ancestry. And here in this prison cell, somewhere hidden deep beneath a safe house of the Order's, he strangely felt free again.

They would torture him, for sure, ask him all the questions he couldn't answer, all the hiding places he didn't know, all the faces he couldn't recognise. Then they would dispose of his lifeless body, maybe in a river somewhere, or bury him hastily in the frozen ground, or burn him to ashes for it was too much of a burden to dig a grave in the middle of winter, and he was just a Death Eater anyway, scum that needn't be bothered with. He simply hoped that he would be buried somewhere peaceful.

Somehow, through all these years of serving the Dark Lord, he'd kept the image of a quiet burial in his mind, somewhere in the countryside, not on the beach, but near enough to hear the endless sound of a thousand waves crashing against the rocky coastline. He'd dreamed of a family surrounding his grave – a wife, old and wrinkled, yet still beautiful, and two children, one with dark skin and hair, the other one with fairer skin and raven locks cascading down her back. His children would be married, of course, so there would be a husband and a wife of theirs, too, grieving, but not as hard as the members of his immediate family. There would be children, as well – although they wouldn't have come for being too young to bear the entire ceremony. Yet there would be his oldest granddaughter standing beside the tomb, looking exactly as his own mother had – dark hair, olive-toned Mediterranean skin and a tall but curvy built, Her eyes would be filled with tears, her face already wet and tear-streaked, her eyes red and puffy and her cheeks pale and cold, as though she were dying inside, dying because of grief. She would be a strong girl, and she would try not to let her grief show, but eventually she would hug her father and burst into fresh tears.

He snorted. That was not likely to happen. He would probably and up somewhere, unmourned, hastily buried, and his cell would quickly be filled with another. These were desperate times. The Order was short on prison cells, so they would have to get rid of any prisoners that might stay for longer than -

"Ahem," someone said.

Unwillingly, lazily, he turned his head around to look at his torturer.

"Granger," he whispered in surprise.

"Should I remember you?" she asked icily, her eyes glittering with power and force. He found it hard to take his eyes off her. She certainly had changed since Hogwarts, from a mousy brown bookworm to a beautiful young woman. War suited her well. It had sharpened her feature, made her eyes shine more in contrast to her too-pale white face and reddened her lips. In all, she was the very picture of calm strength, of tranquil cruelty and hidden danger. He looked at her in awe. She was beautiful. This was not the Hermione Granger he recalled from his library visits. This was not the Hermione Granger he'd kissed once, on an impulse, one day when the had been the only ones to

study in the History of Magic section.

"Yes," he whispered, "yes, you probably should." He didn't trust his voice entirely. She looked at him, really looked at him beneath his shabby clothes and the dirt that were hiding his aristocratic features, black hair and dark skin.

"Impossible," she breathed. "Shouldn't you be somewhere in Italy? Or dead?"

"Well," he smirked, although smirking hurt. Everything hurt. "I'm not. Not yet. And yes, it is me, Blaise Zabini."

"It really is you. Merlin, I hadn't expected to see you again." She looked as pleasantly surprised as he felt – as surprised as circumstances allowed. He couldn't say if it was a good thing or not. Maybe she was going to hurt him worse because she knew him. Maybe she would torture him longer and harder because he had kissed her without her consent once. Although she had seemed to respond to his kiss, he suddenly wasn't so sure any more.

But then she smiled at him, that unearthly, surreal smile he'd loved once, the smile he had admired and kissed her for. And strangely, he smiled back. Things were definitely looking up after all. Maybe the sky wasn't all cloudy any longer. There seemed to be a sudden sunbeam streaming through the clouds, hitting the ground right next to him, where she stood. She was that sunbeam.

Suddenly she was coming towards him, both of her hands outstretched in welcome. Something new shone in her eyes, triumph maybe, and something else he couldn't quite identify. He couldn't help staring at her figure. She'd always been lean, but somehow time had put curves on her in all the right places. Harbouring a seductive smile, she was still walking towards him.

He nearly startled in surprise when she settled herself on his lap, trapping his hands between their bodies. He couldn't help feeling her warmth, her touch, her breasts brushing against his chest repeatedly, her hands encircling his neck and drawing him closer. All of a sudden, his body seemed to act on its own accord. He moved forward to touch her lips with his, hesitantly and sweetly and first, but soon the kiss grew heated when she began to respond to his probing lips in the earnest. His hands were roaming over her body, and hers were caressing his back, pushing upwards his shirt as he tried to tear off her simple blue dress. She was straddling him now, pushing him back onto his bed while she got rid of her clothes.

He stared at her, at her white body and perfect breasts, wondering absent-mindedly if this was a new kind of torture. However, when she proceeded to take of his pants and lowered herself onto his cock while kissing him still, he decided that he didn't care, at least while she was still moving so deliciously against him. Perhaps he would regret it later, after this was over, after he had stopped sliding in and out of her warmth, after he had moaned when she breathed his name against his shoulder, after trying to bury himself deeper and deeper within her, after he had witnessed her shake with her own orgasm which was such an intense sight it sent him over the edge as well, after holding her tightly to his body and breathing heavily, completely in sync with her. Perhaps he would regret then.

But for now, he decided that today his clouds had a distinct silver lining to them.

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_A/N: __Good? Bad? Indifferent? Worthy of a sequel? Should I write another Blaise/Hermione soon? Please review!_

_If you like this pairing, there's also_ Glimmer of Hope_, accessible from my profile. It is much more innocent, much sweeter than this one. _

_Anna Scathach  
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	2. Silver Lining II

_A/N: Here you go. The second chapter, which was also written when I should have been studying for my exams... I hope it can answer a few of your questions, although, as you'll see, I've preferred to leave the ending rather open. Simply decide what it's supposed to mean! __I hope you enjoy, and please review!  
_

_Dedicated to my grandparents, all of them, but especially my paternal grandfather (except for the last part ;). I wish I could have known you. For this second (and normally last) part of Silver Lining, I'd like to thank those who've reviewed so far - Kari Col, RavenEcho and JillianUnleashed. Don't you think it's kind of strange that 80 people read your fic and ony three bother to review? __So thanks very much to those who did review. Thanks for making a good day even better.  
_

___Disclaimer: Anything you might recognise (characters, setting, etc.) is not mine, it all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc. No copyright infringement intended._

**WARNING: ****Mention of violence, death and torture. Torture. Smut. Crude language.  
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**_Silver lining II_**

_Every cloud has a silver lining._

He sighed. He had known this couldn't last.

Lying next to her, breathing heavily, he looked at the door and wondered if escaping was worth a try. It was not, of course, it would all be over in a matter of seconds before he reached the door. Although she was currently lying half on top of him, her eyes closed, she was alert nevertheless and would kill him instantly if he tried to flee.

She looked at him and grinned. "That would be useless," she murmured, "I would have to kill you." He nearly startled at the sudden cruelty in her sweet eyes. Hidden beneath the surface, there was a lot more to Hermione Granger than she let on. She was not simple sunbeam, but rather a sunbeam just seconds before it started to rain, that one fatal last sunbeam before the world ended, before it all fell down in parts and pieces as the sky exploded. She was cruel, dangerous, fatal. She could be deadly.

He smiled back. Looking at him with those glittering eyes again, she smiled back, brighter than before, but also lazily, like a cat might smirk at its prey it was about to devour. He couldn't help shuddering a little. Somehow she seemed to trigger the first instincts of humankind inside of him – fear, anger, lust. And her lazy smile set something off in him, something old and strong and mysterious, something that bordered on the desire to run away, but wasn't quite that.

Later, he would not be able to recollect why he had kissed her again, kissed her so hard his lips were bruising hers and his teeth drew blood. When he pulled back, he saw a small trail of blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth, tainting her alabaster skin. Suddenly he found it hard to breathe when she slowly licked the crimson drops away. He stared, unable to take his eyes off her, and she stared back, never once blinking until she started leaning in again and rapidly captured his lips with hers. Her kiss was not as brutal as his had been but it was not gentle in any way, their tongues battling, their teeth grazing skin, their hands desperately clutching at each other. He was now close to tearing off her dress, but he reckoned he would be in trouble for that later, so he simply lifted the garment off her again. For the second time he was stunned by her beauty. He breasts were heaven and the swell of her hips promised sinful lust. Leaving her lips in a frenzy, he peppered kisses down her throat, alternating with light bites.

She, who had been purring like a cat from the moment he'd left her lips, sighed when he reached her breasts, lavishing them with his mouth in turn. He played with her nipple, twisting and turning it until it had become hard and darkened considerably. All the while she was threading her hands through his hair, dragging her fingernails over his back. Then, suddenly, she turned the tables on him, settling herself on his thighs. His cock was just barely touching her, but she didn't move. Instead, she rubbed her breasts to his chest in a most seductive manner and kissed him again in that needy, desperate way. She was the warmth to his cold, the fire to ashes, the lightning to thunder.

He wanted, no, he needed to feel her now, but he suddenly felt he was unable to move. Looking up into her eyes, he noticed malice in them, hidden beneath a lusty stare, yet still there. She had chained him to the bed. He tried to move, but all in vain. He couldn't lift his hips to meet hers. Smirking at him, she lowered herself onto him so that he entered her. It was not nearly enough.

"Please," he whispered, a desperate edge to his voice.

"Can't," she told him. "And I certainly won't."

This left him wondering what she was about to do. Stark naked, spread out on the bed, virtually defenceless... was she going to torture him now? But then she knelt between his legs, trailing her hands down his torso until she reached his torso. Unmoving, she simply held him in her palms, and he, unable to reach out, simply stared down at her.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice cracking lightly. Then he suppressed a moan when she astarted rubbing him softly. Softly still, and only barley, yet he felt an enormous weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This was not torture.

Abruptly he hands stilled. "No, you tell me," she murmured, her mouth hovering over his cock, her lips brushing it when she spoke. A shudder ran through his entire body, a mix of anticipation and fear.

"Where are the headquarters?"

This was the worst kind of torture. "Wiltshire," he breathed, not trusting his voice. "Malfoy Manor."

She licked him once, languidly. "When is the next attack supposed to take place?"

"I don't know."

She lifted her head, leaving him groaning in disappointment. "Are you sure?" She was nearly sitting now, and he still couldn't move.

"I don't know. Trust me, I don't."

She grinned. "Then why don't I believe you?" She licked a trail all over his chest, making him moan again. This was just a game to her. Yes, he had been prepared for torture, but he certainly hadn't been ready for this. And once again, her lips were hovering just above his cock, brushing him ever so slightly but never enough. It was the sweetest torture imaginable, and probably the worst part of it was that he didn't want her to stop.

Another minute of this, and he was ready to cave.

"Fine," he gasped, for she had stopped licking his length as soon as he'd opened his mouth, "London. The Tube. You know what station. Friday, at the usual hour. "

There were a great many questions after that, and he answered them all. Like she had promised, not with words, but with her actions and the glittering look in her eye, she continued his torture for a long, long, very long time, never letting him come although sometimes he felt very close, knowing he would be there in a heartbeat, yet then she suddenly pulled away. He briefly wondered if this was the first time she'd ever done this – probably not, he thought, judging by the way she was expertly keeping him on the edge, close to falling but never there.

Eventually the questioning cease. She sat up, amusement evident on her face. He was disappointed, for his body was shaking with lust and he'd faithfully answered every question she'd asked, until she settled herself comfortably, impaling herself entirely onto his cock.

This must be what heaven was like, he mused. But then there was no room for thought any longer, because she had started moving, lifting her hips rhythmically, her hair dancing around her body in an almost surreal way and her breasts bouncing. Had he been able to move, he would have turnd her on her back in a matter of seconds, he'd be fucking her hard and fast, but all he could do was watch helplessly as she created a tantalizingly slow rhythm. It was all too slow for his taste, but by now he would have agreed to just about anything.

And so he continued to watch her through half-lidded eyes, watched her beautiful yet untouchable curves with an almost worshipping gaze while she languidly rode him, lighting a fire within him that he couldn't fight. Suddenly she was moving faster, raising her hips in a frenzy, finally. The sensations of her around him, again and again, were making him moan her name. Over and over again he chanted her name, like a prayer. "Hermione, Hermione, Hermione." She dragged her fingers over his back in response, drawing blood. Afterwards, she licked her nails clean, then kissed him heatedly.

If the world were going down outside, he would not have cared. All that mattered was the storm that was threatening to break free. When her walls clenched around his cock in the first waves of orgasm, it was his undoing. And suddenly his hands were free, so her flipped her around, pounding into her mercilessly until he was completely spent.

When he fell down on the bed next to her, exhausted but satisfied, he whispered a single word. "Why?"

This made her slide off the bed, dressing as she walked to the door. When she was already halfway out of the cell, he heard her faint answer. "Duty."

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_A/N: __Good? Bad? Indifferent? Should I write another Blaise/Hermione soon? Please review!_

_If you like this pairing, there's also_ Glimmer of Hope_, accessible from my profile. It is much more innocent, much sweeter than this one. _

_Anna Scathach_


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